by E L Russell
She found the sound of heavy breathing annoying. “Speak, Jack. What’s on your mind?”
“Right, ‘gov. I just got the word. Donahue blew his brains out?”
“Any questions?”
“Ah, well, mate, how’d you do that?”
“Shit no, Jack. I was out of town. The important thing to remember is that you and I have real business to do. You know I mean business now, correct?”
“Right, ‘gov.”
“Have you assembled the crew? Do you remember what I need to do next?”
“You mentioned you wanted to talk to them about the next job.”
“Good man, Jack. How many did you get?”
“Twelve.”
“Good, I calculate that it will take them from Thanksgiving to the New Year to tag the victims. That gives about a two-week buffer for unexpected delays. You must have them documented, trained, and in place by Thanksgiving.”
“I can do that, ‘gov.”
“I’ve decided to throw in bonuses to you and the team when you make the Thanksgiving deadline and another when you reach the New Year’s deadline. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, mum.”
50
Proof of Concept Part 1
October, Director Davies Directs a Penultimate Transfer
Meret wasn’t sure she understood what Director Davies had asked her to do. “Are you wanting me to address several CIA Directors? What do you want them to know and how will we accomplished that?”
Director Davies explained. “These directors represent a select team charged with researching emerging technologies’ that could be weaponized, enhance the company’s ability to communicate, identify, and respond threats to the Homeland.”
Meret leaned closer to the monitor. “I thought DARPA served that function.”
“They still do. However, I believe this initiative is more tactical and will complement DARPA’s strategic efforts and may actually help us to perform our mission faster.”
She opened her hands as though presented a gift. “Director, then think of our beetle bots as a spin on that effort. The multi-level thinking behind them transcends an out-of-a-box moment; this advancement in the identification-communication-response cycle was done from a no-box perspective.”
Director Davies nodded. “I understand. Steve, how do you rate the beetle’s current design?”
He cleared his throat. “Now that we can generate better profiles faster, the teams we placed in the field stand a good chance of tagging or bringing them in.”
Director Davies frowned. “Since all evidence seems to be converging toward Washington, I need you, Meret, here at headquarters to meet face to face with that select team of directors. From what I seen, current problems with our video conferencing capability isn’t sufficiently secure. The kind of incident on Socotra must not reach the Homeland. All CIA departments need to be read in on this new technology as many of them will to join us—”
“—If I may, sir,” she raised both index fingers. “It’s important that we call it what it is, a Genecaust, and make the name of it reflect a common understanding throughout the INTELligence community.”
He nodded slowly. “You are correct and that is part of your mission with the Directors.” He flipped over his hand to accompany several points. “You interviewed several survivors, you know what they and their families experienced. Couple that with your science and your speculation of our future and give them the best twenty-minuet TED talk they ever heard.”
* * *
Later that evening Meret stood in the wings of a small stage in an auditorium, built to hold three hundred and counted a total of twenty directors and aides in the audience. Glancing at what normally would be a balcony, a wall of glass housed several technical teams that recording the presentation. Self-talk filled her mind as much as almost too much acid in her stomach. She inhaled deeply and considered meditation as Director Davies completed his introduction. The only words she heard were “I give you Dr. Meret Mather.”
Walking the short distance to the spot on the stage given to her during the shot blocking rehearsal she had two hours ago, she thought of the hundreds of hours she lectured at Rice and at Hermann Memorial. True, lives would be enhanced or saved by the knowledge she shared those learning institutions, but today’s talk would be different. She shuddered once at the thought of it and rubbed the beetle pendant hanging about her neck on a long gold chain like a worry stone. Get your ass in gear, girl.
“I am about share a story with you. It is entirely true. I asked for and received permission to visit the stricken island of Socotra to learn more about the attack.” She paused at her onstage spot to scan the small aggregation for reaction, but the back lights from the balcony control room made that impossible. She raised her chin and continued. “The events occurred only days ago and what you are about to experience are the words of many who have since died. Everyone I spoke with lost family.”
She began to pace slowly across the small stage. Looking at the gold beetle in her palm, her mind flooded with memories of her first day after the attack on Socotra.
Yesterday
Riding with her two jeep escort of field agents dressed like archaeologists, Meret left the airport and raced east on the narrow paved coastal highway of northern Socotra between Mori & Qadub. She elected to sit in the front right side of the tan jeep to get a better perspective of the thin, black columns of smoke floating lazily in the distance from scattered small villages. Scanning for possible sources of the ominous black threads, she yelled over the noise of rushing air and road rough road to the driver. “The report said the drones dropped no explosives or incendiaries, so what’s burning?”
Before he could respond, a local company asset pulled on the back of her seat to be closer. “They’re burning their dead and anything else they believe to be contaminated.”
She shook her head. “Makes no sense. They’re Muslim. They don’t cremate.”
He added, “I’m told they’re desperately fear dying as others have.”
She covered her mouth and paused. “Oh my God, I should have seen this coming.”
The asset pulled closer. “What? How could you?”
Her voice rose, not to overcome the noise generated by the jeep and the road, but reflecting her growing anger at those responsible for the carnage. “They chose a specific strain of virus to generate all the horrible symptoms of a bad case of ebola to create fear and panic. They coupled it with a smart killing virus to emphasize their ability to target specific people. They’ve made what we are calling a Genecaust, the terrorist’s perfect propaganda tool.”
“How specific?”
Her anger grew and she wanted to hit the asset, the driver, anyone.
“We’ve reports that only females have been targeted and that includes the young, the young . . . girls.”
To avoid feeding her rage, Meret turned away and resumed her examination of the distant landscape. She identified at least a dozen additional fires, but could only speculate the number of deaths each represented. Feeling the horror and fear they generated, she tried unsuccessfully to block images of intensive ebola-like bleeding from all orifices, including the pores of their skin.
The driver slowed and pointed ahead. “We’re approaching a small group of people.”
She shielded her eyes. “It looks like a man with two boys pulling a cart.” Looking for an exit, a way to get involved with a solution, any solution, she commanded. “Stop, I need to speak with them.”
As the jeeps slowed toward a noisy stop on the rocky side of the highway, the driver said, “Our translator’s in the other jeep.”
She jumped before they came to a complete stop. “No, I got this. The locals speak Soqotri, a dialect of Arabic. I’ll be okay.” She quickly backed away, wrapping her grey scarf into a hijab. “Tell the team to stay with the jeeps. If what’s in this family’s cart is what I think it is, we need to show respect and if I need assistance, I’ll call you.”
&n
bsp; 51
Proof of Concept 2
October, Meret Mather closes - ultimatetransfer
Getting close to the cart she saw three wrapped bundles. After several quick steps, Meret approached the father and his sons as they turned from the highway toward a cluster of low hills. None wore shoes and the sand must have been as hot as the road. The sons struggled pulling on the handles while the father pushed the laden cart with one hand. Then she noticed he kept the other hand on the large bundle she concluded had to be his wife. The smaller bundles were his daughters.
Seeing her, the man called his sons to stop.
Standing downhill from the father, she lowered her chin. “My name is Meret, I morn your loss. I am a physician, is there anything I can do for you or your sons?”
His dark, recessed eyes examined her. His weathered features and thin body spoke of a history of toil, butte knew this was his heaviest load.
“I am Daboor. Are you Egyptian?”
She resisted a smile. “You see my mother’s love of the sun in my dark skin. I have her mother’s name.”
His hand remained on his wife’s body as he spoke. “Thank you, but there is nothing for you to do as a physician. My sons, Hamed and Jihan and I will bury their mother, Gabina and their sisters, Larisa and Marina within the hill ahead.”
She extended her open hands toward him. “I am here as a friend who wishes to learn more about this tragedy. May I walk the path with you?”
He nodded. “As you wish.”
She put her hands next to his on the back of the cart and supported the family’s efforts to reach the top.“Tell me what happened to your village.”
His spoke as they pushed his wife and daughters up the path. “On that day, as we had done for years, my wife, with our children, two boys and two girls, began the mile walk to the beach to cast their nets from the sandy shores. I and my neighbors, left earlier to work my small fishing boat far from the shore in the deep, beautiful blue waters in the Gulf of Aden. We observed the drones flying low and then they vanished.” He shook his finger at the clouds. The other hand remind on his wife. “We have seen pictures of them in the news and knew they carry death and destruction so we feared for our village. When no bombs fell we hoped they were not here to harm us. But then, after three days the death came.” He lowered his head and asked me to tell him what I knew.
I shrugged, not sure my words held any comfort. I told him, “Several days ago we learned someone had stolen and modified ten Reaper drones and released them from a hidden base somewhere in southern Yemen to fly them low southeast over the Gulf of Aden toward Socotra. Where was you boat when you saw them?
Daboor said, “After hours of poor fishing from a place halfway between Yemen and Socotra, we decided to begin the homeward sail. Moments later we heard the hum of engines approaching behind, from Yemen. As one, we turned and caught flashes of reflected sunlight from small, low flying drones as they passing close over us before heading for the distant coast near our village on the other side of the highway.”
“I helped Daboor and his boys maneuver the cart up the hill through a rough patch of loose rocks. Then Daboor told me his wife, Gabina and her children, net fishing in shallow surf, also heard the approaching whine of engines approaching from Yemen. They dropped their nets, crouched low and shaded their eyes with hands to watch the distant horizon for the source. As with us, the engines soon grew to a terrifying loud crescendo as they suddenly passed low overhead. Once inland, they separated into several directions, flying out of sight. He looked at the blue sky as though the drones might appear once more.”
“He related his sons told him their mother raised her arms in praise to Allah that no bombs were released on their village and instructed them to collect their nets. Within three days Gabina and her daughters were dead. He said they died badly.”
“Now, in the shade of a cluster of Socotra’s short Dragon’s Blood trees, Daboor knelt in the parched earth, with Hamed and Jihan wearily smoothing the fresh top layer of dirt and sand covering the graves of his wife and their sisters Larisa and Marina. He said he did not know why Allah allowed them to die such a miserable death, but managed to praise him over their graves.” She sighed. I couldn’t tell him we suspected that they were chosen to be the victims of what the perpetrators would later announce as Operation Rapture, the overture to the first Great Genecaust. So I asked Daboor why he had chosen this for them.
He told me he had chosen this hill for burial, as had many others, for the view of the ocean and the rare shade provided by the strange group of trees. The eerieearth, with dark red sap of the Dragon’s Blood trees seeping down a crack in their trunks paid tribute to the bleeding his wife and daughters had suffered.
His world had capsized. Looking for any signs of normalcy, he turned first toward their modest village, located on Socotra’s north coast between the small city of Mori and Socotra’s airport. Then he shielded his eyes and turned to gaze across the distant Gulf of Aden to see the southern coast of Yemen in a vain attempt to determine if any more drones headed toward them. He had once taken his sons out there to fish from their small fishing boat. Today he had taken them to bury their mother and his daughters. They continued to pat the mounds that covered her and their sisters.
Daboor walked to the empty cart and called to his sons. They rushed into his arms, clinging to each other. Another column of black smoke rose in the distance where families burned their homes and loved ones in a senseless effort to destroy the pestilence. Unaware there was no plague as they knew it and the death toll was complete. For now, no more would die.
Today
She raised her chin and realized the audience sat silent, waiting for her to continue. Folding her arms, she glanced at the floor and began to pace, telling them the story of Daboor and his family. “We also interviewed local police and military figures that confirmed the drones had followed the costal road in both directions, breaking away only to track the few lines of good road that lead into larger inland villages. Still, none of the population reported bombs or rocket attacks from the drones.
It was not until days later, after scientists pieced together the remains of two crashed drones and found the seeds of biochemical destruction they had released over Socotra’s settlements and towns, did they discover the drone’s real mission.”
An aide gave her a fresh bottle of water. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light and she could see the faces of the CIA Directors and their aides sitting in rigid silence. Taking a sip from the bottle, she knew she had their attention.
“After reviewing the INTEL, we are confident reporting the drones released an invisible odorless gas of a cocktail of viral enzymes, which invaded the air passages of thousands of unsuspecting people; men, women, and children alike. The smart killer virus was programmed to react to specific genetic markers. Determining the host was male, the smart killer virus ceased to function and did nothing. If the smart killer virus determined the host was female, it continued its search for specific DNA markers. Women without the genetic marker were ignored. Finding the specific genetic marker, the smart killer virus would confirm the host was a descendent of one woman from centuries before. Once that marker was identified, the smart killer virus unleashed its poison.”
She began pacing waving one hand while her free arm cling tight across her stomach. “The doctors also reported the infected females exhibited no symptoms within the first twenty-four hours. That allowed the disease, carried by an airborne agent, to spread quickly. Coming into contact with an infected person by touch or breath would be sufficient to transmit the virus.”
Her voice rose. “After the first day the infected females developed flu-like fevers that rose alarmingly until the third day when they began to bleed through orifices and the pores of their skin. Few lasted to day four or five.
Sadly, many families had barricaded themselves inside schools, homes, office buildings and places of worship seeking safety as best they could. Many more sought sanctuary in the
hundreds of limestone caves throughout the tiny island. This only brought many together in confined spaces, speeding the transfer of the disease. Death from the released virus came before a cure could be initiated.”
She stopped, pretending to need a drink of water, and regained control over her breathing. She knew the next part of her lecture would be difficult and took in one more deep breath.
She returned to her onstage spot to make a point. Filling the auditorium with her voice, she counted on her fingers.
“One, as Directors of INTELligence you need to know that our enemy was able to murder Daboor’s wife, Gabina, and his daughters along with thousands of Muslim women on the isolated island of Socotra only because scientists had earlier classified this tiny island’s population as a concentration of the mitochondrial haplogroup N. Two, this familial legacy of their Muslim ancestry could only be found in women of that uninterrupted linage on Socotra. Three, they had all descended from a single woman, centuries before. While believe that woman to be Hagar, wife of Abraham, we do not believe that this was an attack on Islam. Four, this mitochondrial haplogroup does not live anywhere else in the world, thereby making them a unique and unfortunate group for genetic research.” She waited for the ensuing murmur to pass. “This one’s important to the pending assault to the Homeland. Five, thirty-three days after the attack, the claim by a fundamental faction known only as the Eastern Wind of Retribution assuming responsibility for the deaths, is a false claim intended to deflect us from finding the truth behind the incident. Their claims the attack was punishment for the Muslim population conversion to Christianity centuries before is a bogus and a callus attempt to cover up a business decision. Nothing more.”
As the din of chatter in the audience grew, she chopped the air with her pointed finger. “The facts of the bottom line are clear. Of the 50,000 people in the 2100 square miles of Socotra, 1500 women and children, mostly Muslim, with a small percentage of a few who had converted to Christianity, were murdered as part of someone’s business plan. In my opinion, the Socotra Genecaust we observed was just a proof-of-concept for a greater profit plan and” she shouted, “we need to uncover that plan because all chatter points to the Homeland as the next target.”